


Lost Lullaby

by GraceHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Canon Relationships, F/M, Gen, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy, because those are important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:06:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceHolmes/pseuds/GraceHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock walks into his worst nightmare: John and Mary are dead. Their baby girl is missing. Set four months after The Abominable Bride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: First off I'd like to thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm not sorry about how sad it is, 'that was rather the point'. I'd also like to special thank Angie for being my beta, and Mac for the inspiration to this very short story. Cheers!

_Quiet. Calm. Peaceful... Isn't it hateful?_

Sherlock found them himself.

According to his deductions, Mary had been first, then John. From the way the intruder had come in through the house (back door) and where they were each located (dining room, baby's room), that's how it had happened. At least it'd been quick.

Bullets to the brain.

It was just another day, after all. Sherlock had walked into their house with his key, after received a text about dinner an hour previous. He could do dinner, with wine and sitting and talking. _A_ _nd_ making faces at the three month old baby girl he was completely in love with. This baby girl who bore his name among her middle names, his two best friends' daughter, he wanted to steal her away. As the saying went.

His case was on pause for the moment, he could spare his work for a bit of 'normality'. Or so he thought.

At first he hadn't believed what he saw. Maybe it was just a conjured up scenario in his mind palace, a drug-induced one. Something of his raving chaotic mind. But Sherlock hadn't dosed up in four months. He was clean. He'd been chasing his biggest mystery of whoever was using Moriarty's name to wreck havoc on England, he didn't need the drugs. He had the real thing.

When Sherlock walked into the Watsons' house, he'd called out, stepping lithely into the modest home with a smile on his face and coat wrapped around his lean frame. He called their names, letting them know he was here.

Silence.

Mary was in the dining room, on her back, with limbs cocked at angles where her body had just dropped on itself. Blood pooled underneath her head. The entry wound had been in the back, and was hidden by blood stained blonde hair. The exit wound…well that had put a neat gaping hole through her cheek bone. Blood splattered over her pale skin. Her blue eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. Pupils fixed and dilated. Body, clad in a smart dark green dress, unmoving and _still._ Still as death.

Sherlock was slow. Too slow. And Mary Watson was dead. He couldn't quite understand it at first. But when the truth finally made itself present in his mind as reality, the bag of peas he'd been told to bring fell to the ground.

"JOHN!"

Then he was a blur of motion, running away from his best friend's wife, who'd been one of the best friends he'd ever had. He had to find his blogger, his doctor, his John.

John was slumped in the chair in the baby's room. The hole in his head was small, right under his hairline. His arms and legs splayed as if he'd been standing and had fallen back into the rocker at the moment of the gunshot. His open eyes stared at the wall by the door, stormy blue eyes that had seen war and death, and love and family. They wouldn't see anything else.

The person who shot them had been taller than both, taller than 1.68 meters. The deduction popped into Sherlock's head without him meaning to.

It didn't matter, did it?

Sherlock collapsed on the floor by the door of the baby's room in a puddle of dark black coat. His fingers fumbled with his phone until he pushed the speed dial of the only person that could help him.

"Yes, Sherlock. What is it?" Mycroft Holmes answered within one ring.

"Help." Sherlock said, his voice unrecognizable and his tone so soft he hoped the message got through. He couldn't find the strength to repeat it. He let the phone drop and closed his eyes against the vision of John in the baby's rocking chair.

The baby was gone, of course. Sherlock knew that too. She would have been crying if she had been there. But for the life of him, he didn't know or couldn't deduce where she'd gone to.

Five minutes later the police sirens could be heard out of the window.

Ten minutes after that, Sherlock still hadn't moved, lost in his head and away from the pain that was John's dead body a few meters away and unheard echo of the gunshot that had stolen his life. Mycroft knelt on the ground in front of his little brother. Familiar hands tipped his head up and it was then that Sherlock tuned back into the present. He blinked his eyes open slowly as if rising from a deep slumber.

"My?" Childhood nickname for his brother. Unintentional. Unnoticed.

"I'm here, Sherlock." Mycroft's features were drawn, haggard, and worried.

Sherlock wondered why.

"John's not." He replied quietly. "I…I don't want to be here either."

"We'll get you out of the house, somewhere safe." His brother answered. "I've got people on this already-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "I mean…I don't want to be _here_." He met his brother's eyes hesitantly. "I want to be with John and Mary."

"Your goddaughter is missing." Mycroft said firmly, but his features grew more worried, more drawn, _sentimental_ even. As if he wanted to scope up the five year old version of Sherlock Holmes and hold him through the scary dreams and night terrors and anxiety. "You, Sherlock, will not abandon her. You will not give up. Do you hear me?"

Sherlock's silver blue eyes finally formed tears as the shock slowly dissipated. The shock gave way to only sorrow, loneliness. And nothing. He sniffed once. "I can't."

Mycroft gave into the urge. The elder brother sat down next to Sherlock and wrapped both of his arms around the younger, holding him in a vice grip to keep him from falling to pieces. Still, tears steamed down the younger brother's face and the sobs wracked his body. _Caring was not an advantage._

Only because it hurt so bloody much.

* * *

Sherlock's moment of weakness in his brother's arms didn't last forever. It was a crime scene, after all. People in gloves and boots traipsed in with cameras and markers and clipboards. Despite the professional and serious nature of it, they kept stealing glances at the Holmes brothers.

Sherlock didn't care. His tear stained face, his sore throat, his empty eyes, his shaking body wrapped up in his brother's arms… all were inconsequential. He didn't care what 'they' thought, if he was broken, if he was weak or vulnerable. He didn't bloody care.

He could see Donavan hovering out of the corner of his eye, George…Greg Lestrade not too far away. Busy working. Lestrade was struggling, from his shaky hands to his down turned face, it was obvious. Sherlock knew why. John had friends, people who cared about him. It wasn't hard to deduce. Most people loved John and Mary, or had been influenced by them in one way or another.

Sherlock sniffed once, and without moving away from the foundation of his brother, spoke in a very small voice. "I have to find her."

Mycroft peeked down at him, the furrowed worried expression never having left his face. "Yes, you have to. I've already got people working." Pause, the usual one before verbally expressed sentiment. "But I still have to call in the best man for the job."

Sherlock huffed his response, only then pulling away from his brother. There wasn't going to be any false comfort. The chance of finding her, and then finding her _alive_ , was very small. Sherlock was good with slim chances, but this time he didn't have his back up. His doctor wasn't going to be running in beside him.

Sherlock already knew he wasn't going to recover from this. He could feel it all the way to his bones. This moment in time, this day, Sherlock Holmes died right there with John and Mary Watson. But his ghost had a little girl to find and save and _love_ all else. This little girl would carry on the legacy of his best friends. If she was still alive too.

With Mycroft's help, Sherlock stood up with more grace than he'd fallen down. Watery silver eyes once again landed on the body. He didn't believe in talking to John's corpse, making promises that he didn't know if he could keep. He wouldn't tell John he'd find his daughter, he wouldn't promise to avenge what had happened. John didn't care. He was dead.

Instead Sherlock got to work.

After thoroughly analyzing the crime scene, Sherlock snuck John's gun out of the desk, gave his brother one last look in a silent request for updated information, and then left the Watsons' house.

Besides…he already had an idea. John and Mary's murder, the baby's kidnapping, it was the biggest clue.

His current case was a complicated one. John hadn't even fully understood what they were up against. But Sherlock knew, he'd gotten too deep, and John and Mary had paid the price. His guilt had to wait though, he had work to do. Kidnapping cases were all about _time_. She didn't have much of it, she'd already been gone an hour.

For the next thirteen and a half hours, Sherlock Holmes was a flurry of activity. There were calls from his brother, updates on lab results from Lestrade, and one teary voicemail from Molly Hooper asking hm to call her if he needed to. He ignored it.

He deduced the kidnappers hadn't left London. They were based in the city, they wanted to cause chaos in _his_ city after all. It was only a matter of narrowing down where they could be among millions of people and hundreds of square kilometers.

His Homeless Network came through in the end, but Mycroft ensured there was a team to back Sherlock up. Mycroft knew his brother, and the situation. Had he been left alone, Sherlock would have killed each and everyone there no matter if it was necessary or not. They deserved it. They deserved the slowest and most agonizing death Sherlock could dream up, but there wouldn't be time for that.

The group spread out through the house, guns out, eyes sharp. Four perpetrators were gunned down, seven more restrained. But it was the soft mewl of the baby that caught Sherlock's attention above all else. He dismissed the distractions and focused on his goddaughter.

He had a mission. A promise to keep. And a legacy to keep safe.

He found her in the dining room, on a dirty cot, still wrapped in the blanket she'd been stolen in. Her arms were waving and her cries were loud and longing. Once he swept the room, he put away the gun and scooped her up into the sanctuary of his arms.

In the middle of the safe house, swarming with MI5 agents and police officers, Sherlock Holmes gently held a three month old baby. She was crying still. It didn't matter because he was crying too. The tears streamed down his face as he pulled the fragile infant closer to his throbbing chest. His heart pounded and his vision blurred though the realization that it was over. This baby wouldn't know her mother and father. She'd never quite understand who they were and what they'd done for her, as well for as her godfather. This little girl would grow up to have John's stormy blue eyes, Mary's smile, and the fierce nature of both. But their daughter wouldn't know.

Among the chaos and through his tears and exhaustion, Sherlock spoke to his new little girl.

"Hang on, love. I've got you now."

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes legally adopted the Watson's daughter as soon as he could. Mycroft pulled the strings. Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper lent their help. But Sherlock took over her care completely. It was the thing keeping him alive, after all. It only made sense to keep her alive too.

He took his duties seriously, and _loved_ this little girl. What surprised him the most was that she loved him back. There were bumps on the road, and struggles through the loneliness and confusion that was raising a young girl. But they had each other, no matter what.

The years passed. His memory palace filled with first steps, first days of school, first concerts, first holidays, graduations, a wedding, a grand-baby and then another one. He could pull up the sound of her laughter from any age.

She never called him 'dad', she called him 'Sherlock'. He wanted it that way. He could never replace John, and it hurt too much when people asked why.

As with life, death came hand in hand. Mrs Hudson was the first after John and Mary. Sherlock found her in bed one morning when their tea went unmade. Sherlock's parents, who'd loved on the Watsons' daughter as if she was their own, they passed away within months of each other not even a year later.

Greg Lestrade retired eventually; he and his new wife went traveling, and an accident claimed them. Mycroft Holmes, _the_ British Government and unofficial king of England, bowed to a cancer by the time he turned sixty, passing away in a hospital as the sun rose. Their relationship repaired, Sherlock had been there to hold his hand. Molly Hooper was the only one from the 'old days' still around, she'd moved to the country to be with her grandchildren once she retired from St. Bart's.

Forty-three years after John and Mary's death, it was Sherlock's turn.

His health had been getting irreversibly worse for several months now. His was a body worn down by drugs, smoking, and the toils of dangerous work. He knew he wasn't going to live forever, and he'd never wanted to. But he could tell it would be soon. At least his mind was as sharp as it always had been.

"Sherlock?" A slim blonde woman stepped into the familiar surroundings that was Sherlock's Sussex cottage. Her stormy blue eyes had crows feet around them, and there was no sweet smile on her face. Only concern.

Sherlock's caretaker had left for the afternoon, and the world's only consulting detective was resting comfortably on the couch. He smiled softly when his goddaughter walked into the room. "Hello, love. I'm glad you're here."

She paused, dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes. "Have they been feeding you, Sherlock, you're as thin as a rail."

"Can't be helped I'm afraid." Sherlock coughed quietly, reaching his hand out for her.

She knelt down, still very lithe in her early forties, taking his hand in one of hers and smoothing his white curls off of his forehead. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"

"You'd worry, illogically. There's no point, there's nothing to be done."

"You don't think I worry about you anyways?" Her tone had a teasing edge, but he recognized the deep concern. Both from years of seeing it on her face and the echo of memories of John's expressions.

They talked for hours, the woman turning to sit with her back on the couch and her fingers still interlaced with his. Then they had dinner. Eventually she picked up his old violin and played the wedding song he'd written for her parents so many years ago. He'd taught it to her after she'd started lessons decades ago. They relived memories, shared stories of what her children were up to, and spoke of dreams of traveling and work and Sherlock's beehives.

Life was funny, Sherlock found he always could listen to her talk, no matter what it was about. Even after being tucked into bed later that night, he struggled to stay attentive to the drifting conversation.

"My parents would have been so proud of you."

"Hmm?" Sherlock had to open his eyes after he'd inadvertently dozed in his bed again.

She turned, meeting his eyes with nothing sort of an inexpressibly sad expression on her face. "John and Mary Watson would have been _so_ proud of you, Sherlock. Everything you've done, and been through. They loved you."

Why was his vision blurry, he was wearing his glasses? _Oh._ Sherlock sniffed back the tears that were blossoming in his eyes. "You…you didn't know them."

"No, I didn't. But I know _you_. I know exactly what you told me about them. I know what they did for you, and what you did for them. They would have been so proud of what you've done. _I_ am. And believe me….I will never, _ever,_ forget it."

"Don't delete it, it's important."

She laughed, and only then did he realize that she was almost crying too. He heard it in her voice. The voice that sounded like Mary. But Mary wasn't here, it was her beautiful daughter. Why was she crying?

"I love you, Sherlock. You better know that, and if you deleted it, I'm going to smack some sense back into you." A teasing smile accompanied her words and she squeezed his hand. "I love you. So very much."

"I love you too." He breathed out, suddenly finding himself exhausted.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes fell asleep that night, safe and warm in his bed, with his goddaughter watching over him. John and Mary's daughter. She was a testament to not only their life, but his as well. She was a legacy. He was so proud of her. He went to sleep with a small smile on his face, and a quiet peace of home and family and _love._

He never woke up.


End file.
